Like a goose trapped under a car
because the car didn’t stop for it
and instead seemed to speed up—
like that, but what is it that’s like that?
It’s like we’re all vehicle, no tenor.
All vehicle, no tenderness. Even so,
the goose manages to waddle away
as onlookers’ mouths, stretched
to empty eggs, deflate—not hatch,
no, nothing is born here, like this.